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Date Posted: 11:40:17 06/17/02 Mon
Author: Julian Emberson
Subject: Give him a mask and he'll tell you the truth.
In reply to: Claire Rieera 's message, ".:: Everyone is hiding something ::." on 08:26:25 06/17/02 Mon

Julian laughed softly, losing all sense of annoyance at either of them. Americans could be twice as witty as a British person and he’d been found in the company of those who were wrong, and those almighty. There were only certain places, which would truly hurt a person like Julian, and those were never found. He’d tailored himself well enough not to put himself in any emotionally damaging position. “Thanks, I think. Usually everyone goes with “fucking” prick, but hey, you’re a little more tailored overseas.”

Then he stopped, still rather aloof, offering nothing more but a smirk. Every gesture, though, in his distant, flippant manner seemed to be deigning, pursuing something more out of you to make him fall down. But really, he wouldn’t allow that. It was almost as if he knew the things you were going to say, studied the things about you at first meeting. He never watched you, he never judged you, not until you came up to him. Not until you spoke to him.

“Then you shouldn’t judge,” He said, quickly and so very indisputably. “It’ll mar your upheld virtues.” A smirk arose, pinpointing her lack of faith in virtue. “And I’m rather offended. Nobody in this damn place shops anywhere else than fucking Abercrombie & Fitch, and you patronize me about my clothing of all people. I happen to merely like these stores. Otherwise they wouldn’t have become so renowned.” He snorted disgracefully, uncaring. “I’m sure you’re going to find that nobody judges the way you think we do, and that you’re a very lousy observer. No offense, love, but it so happens I don’t like to be demeaned by means of a stranger’s disillusionments and petty attacks at my exterior.”

He shrugged as much in response to what he said, running his fingers down the cloth of the shirt, which appeared three times too big for his skinny little frame. The arms drooped dramatically down, only a silhouette of his arm showing in the depression of the cloth. He wasn’t going to leave and he had no reason to. He had no reason to stay either, but that didn’t make a difference to him. He looked to Draco, somewhat expectant, but only within. He was waiting to be shot down, and to come back up a legend. And as much as he wanted a fight, he longed for some understanding with the words of Frost, and perhaps his own. A sense of renewal, but hell, he’d go with whatever came his way.

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